


Out of Style

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Ichabbie Forever, Romantic Comedy, ichabbie - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:31:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9349160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Thanks to an archaic promise her guardian made to her late mother, interior designer Abbie Mills needs a fake boyfriend to secure the funds to expand her business.Quirky Brit Ichabod Crane is new in town, rehabbing the old Frederick's Manor as a guesthouse. He's keen to work with Abbie at first, then keener to get under her skin. But, having been broken hearted before, Abbie's only interested in business. Can Ichabod convince her that love, traditional style, is still in fashion?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A plot bunny I dreamt. I hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading. xx

“For an old guy, he’s  _ suspiciously  _ obsessed with babies,” Abbie Mills said absentmindedly to her sister as they responded to the incoming queries to their interiors business,  _ The Sisters Mills. _

 

Jenny slid her a sidelong glance as she filed a project completed yesterday. “You’re just saying that because you don’t want any.”

 

Abbie typed in a few words. “I don’t want any  _ yet. _ Just because you and Joe  _ happened _ to hit it off and are making kissy faces at each other every chance you get does not mean that everyone has to immediately fall in line or risk financial banishment. It’s barbaric. This isn’t 1781, you know.”

 

Rolling her eyes, Jenny closed the filing cabinet and wheeled her chair back to her desk, opposite Abbie’s. Their office was small but beautifully furnished thanks to their interiors experience; three walls were refinished plain brick and the fourth papered in stunning crane-and-lilypad print Japanese style wallpaper. Light from the street outside flooded in, giving the wallpaper an ethereal look. It had led to a few client walk-ins and the steady growth of their business.

 

But even though they were currently the only interiors gig in Sleepy Hollow, that steady growth wasn’t going to get any bigger if their family’s guardian - she snorted silently at the word - didn’t release her inheritance thanks to a  _ loophole. _

 

“He just cares, Abs,” Jenny laughed, glancing at the framed photo of Joe Corbin - blue eyes, cowlicky brown hair - by her PC monitor.

 

“Right,” Abbie groused, sending off the email into cyberspace.

 

But she knew Jenny was telling the truth.

 

Ten years ago, when their mother had died, family friend August Corbin had practically raised them, in many ways. In every way that mattered. And he’d taken on the mantle of father, in a fashion - their own father had long since abandoned his post. Abbie adored him. And she’d been even more adoring when Jenny and August’s own son, Joe, had finally stopped punching and baiting each other and started kissing each other. 

 

It was about damn time. Abbie had almost smooshed their faces together herself a time or two.

 

_ Less _ adoring had come when Jenny and Joe had announced their engagement, and August had taken her to one side at the colourful, relaxed party. 

 

“I promised your mother I’d keep your inheritance back until things.. Were settled,” he’d said.

 

Abbie had stared up at him, sure that confusion was sketched all over her face. “What things?”

 

“You know.” He rubbed a hand over his neck. Emotions made him uncomfortable. Especially as they were talking about emotions without his ever faithful dish of apple pie between them. Abbie knew that some serious emotional shit was going to go down if an apple pie with a side of ice cream appeared.

 

“I  _ don’t  _ know, actually.” 

 

August looked around the room for a second and then dropped into a chair. “Lori… We agreed that you and Jenny could have access to your inheritance when you’d settled with someone. When you’d found happiness.”

 

Abbie’s mouth opened and closed a few times before any sound came out. She and Jenny knew that their mother had a closely guarded nest egg that would become available at some point around the age-30 mark. She’d assumed the wait was so they were settled in the careers they might choose, or so they’d carefully select a house to buy rather than excitedly sinking their money into a fixer upper with huge issues.

 

But this…

 

“That’s archaic,” she finally managed. “What if I’m happy on my own?”

 

His gaze searched hers. “Are you though?”

 

The ringing of the office telephone jerked Abbie from her reverie and as Jenny answered, Abbie’s gaze landed on the engagement ring glinting on her sister’s left hand.

 

No. If she had to admit it, she  _ wasn’t _ thrilled to be on her own. But to be with someone she didn't love with her whole self, every iota, was worse. She had her business. She had her friends ; good ones, close ones. She had her goals. Goals that a certain guardian was seriously getting in. The. Way. Of.

 

Jenny hung up. “You could always just…. Pretend, you know. To get the money. I know you want it to be invest in marketing and to get a bigger design space.”

 

Abbie twisted in her chair. “Pretend? To be in love? He’d never buy that. And then we’d need to break up, wouldn’t we?”

 

“These things happen. He couldn’t in reality hold you to it. He just means well, Abs. That’s all. He knows it would break mom’s heart if he didn’t try.”

 

“You’re just soft on him because he’s your father in law. Or as good as.” She opened another email - query about whether she would be interested in purchasing a robin’s egg blue bureau from a thrift store across the country. She idly opened the link attached. “Who was that on the phone, by the way?”

 

Jenny glanced at the a4 pad she habitually kept by the phone.”It was that British guy again - Ichabod Crane? He’s rehabbing Frederick’s Manor as a guesthouse. He’s really keen to meet us, Abbie. It could be a big account for us.”

 

Abbie narrowed her eyes as she scanned the jpeg of the bureau. It was quirky, but it had promise. “I thought we agreed about this. I’ve seen him in town. He dresses like an escapee from a Ren Fayre! Is that the sort of publicity we want? The Manor is going to be a tourist trap, Jenny. That sort of thing is seriously out of style.”

 

“Done right, it might not be.”

 

“You said that about the  _ Headless Horseman. _ ” Abbie referred to a “Olde English” style gastropub that resident Katrina Van Tassel had set up in the town a year or so earlier. Tourists raved about it, and OK, it definitely helped the economy, but the townspeople in general just found it a bit over-egged.

 

Sighing, Jenny folded her arms. “You’re like a bear with a sore head. Go and meet him, or so help me God, I will personally put your head through that tome of fabric samples.” She pointed at the door. “No one has been this keen to work with us since the beginning of time, and I for one am not letting you get out of it. Why are  _ you _ going, you ask? Because you’ve been such a monumental pain in my ass today. That’s why.”

 

Nothing to do with Joe coming for lunch today then,” Abbie deadpanned.

 

Jenny continued to point at the door and Abbie reluctantly stood up, logging off her computer. “Fine. I’ll think of it as my morning’s entertainment, shall I?”

 

Already picking up the phone, Jenny shoved a business card at her. “There’s his particulars. I’ll call and tell him you’re on your way,” she said sweetly, the picture of cheery helpfulness. Abbie wanted to stab her with a letter opener. But that would only make August more intent on keeping the stupid “marriage bargain” as she’d started to think of it. So she shut up and strode out the door, Ichabod Crane’s business card in hand.

 

******

 

The Manor was still draped in remnants of scaffolding when Abbie pulled up in her little car. She slammed the door closed, portfolio under her arm. She might not want to be here, but  _ The Sisters Mills _ was her lifeblood and damned if she would be anything except professional. Especially to meet a lunatic sinking thousands into the money pit that the Manor would surely be, if it wasn’t that already.

The huge wooden doors were closed. As she stepped towards them, her brows lifted. They had been lovingly restored. She’d expected to see some sort of sign - although that might come later, she reasoned. No need to get her hopes up.

 

The big brass door knockers - horse’s heads, holding horseshoe style knockers - shone against the dark, heavy wood. Sunlight at her back streamed down, glinting off the horse’s gold-carved manes, making them look almost, very nearly, as if they might toss their heads.

 

Abbie blew off the reaction. He’d done one thing right. It didn’t make him an expert. She swallowed down the fact that she  _ knew _ she was being a bit snobby. But really… Was  _ the Headless Horseman _ not enough for Sleepy Hollow? This wasn’t New York. The town didn’t have too much room for touristy stuff.

 

“I just don’t want to be attached to a flop,” she muttered. If the place was twee and got bad reviews on Tripadvisor, word might get back that she and Jenny had styled it. And if the place was a joke, she and her sister might end up one, too.

 

Just as she lifted her hand to knock, the heavy door swung inwards and she got her first, proper look at Ichabod Crane.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Measuring up - of the Manor, and its new occupant.

She had somehow expected him to be less… tall. No idea why. She’d seen him around town. Anyone could tell that he just overshot six feet by a little.

 

Up close, his hair wasn’t just  _ brown. _ It was caramel. Cornfields kissed by late afternoon sunshine. Leaves on the turn between seasons. It curled around his face and brushed the tall collar of his shirt; open at the neck with thick cord stretching over the gaping triangle, revealing tanned chest and just a hint of wiry hair the same shade as that on his head.

 

Where did you even  _ get _ a shirt like that anyway? And those boots…..

 

Well. They made ‘em weird in England, it seemed. She took a breath and settled her gaze on his face again, on the eyes as blue as a brilliant, crisp Spring sky.

 

“Miss…. Mills, I presume?”

 

Abbie stuck out a hand. “Grace Abigail Miss -  _ The Sisters Mills _ design.”

 

He took it, but rather than shake it, he simply held her hand and half-bowed over it. Like a courtly gentleman of old. Abbie was torn between charm and embarassment. Wait until Jenny got a load of this. Although, her sister currently wore the rose-tinted glasses of recent engagement and would probably think it lovely.

“Enchanted,” he murmured and released her hand. “Ichabod Crane.”

 

She tucked her hand safely in the pocket of her cream blazer. “Great to meet you.” She’d keep it strictly business. In case he had any weapons as historically accurate as his clothes in that huge hulking house. In case he decided to use them on her.

 

_ You’re being ridiculous, _ her inner voice chided her. He had given her no clue that he was anything other than a little eccentric. That was no crime. She made herself swallow back her preconceptions. “Hell of a job you’ve taken on.”

 

He held the door for her. “Yes, well, I believe that anything worth doing takes investment and patience,” he said without inflection as she stepped inside.

 

Abbie’s heels clicked as she stepped on to the rough stone floor of the hallway. 

 

“Watch your step,” Ichabod warned. “There’s a lot of tarpaulin down, and particularly in the hall area, some of the flagstones have come loose. As you say, a rather large job.”

 

“Is it just you?” She imagined him, rattling around this huge property. Staying there at night? The thought sent a little chill through her. The property had been vacant for years. Sometimes kids would sneak around it, graffiti-ing on dares, seeing who was more chicken. Who would climb into the highest reaches. Who would shout into the darkest corners.

 

“At present. However during most days the construction crews keep me company.” A smile ghosted over his handsome face, curving that poet’s mouth. He was good looking, for a loon, Abbie thought absently. No - if she was honest, he was gorgeous.

 

“And you’re going to live here? As well as running it as a business, I mean.”

 

He inclined his head slightly, and the light from the long hallway window caught on his autumn-gold, lion’s mane hair. “That is indeed the plan. However, I mean to keep the living quarters small. Maximise useable space.”

 

Now she stood here, soaking it all in, she was desperate to see more of the place. Abbie curled her free hand into a loose fist, telling herself to be patient. “And you’d like a design for your living area as well as the guest spaces?”

 

“In terms of space saving only - if that’s acceptable.”

 

She lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “You’re the client. Anything’s acceptable. You just tell me what you want and we go from there.”

 

His gaze settled on hers, and Abbie saw something there. Not lust. Not creepy obsession. Just a sort of…. Wanting. The sort that warmed her from the inside.

 

“Rest assured, Miss Mills, that once I know what I want, I shall be quite clear in my intentions.”

 

The steady warmth of his blue eyes and the low timbre of his voice made her mouth dry. Abbie breathed in. “Well. Good to know,” she said slowly. Were they still talking about interior design? Damned if she knew. “Shall we get started?”

 

The place was freakin’  _ amazing _ was what it was. By the time she’d looked her fill, snapped her tape measure open and shut one hundred times, measured by hand and by eye and by heart, it had been two hours.

 

Abbie stood on the second floor of the Manor, staring out through the space where French doors would be put in. “The Master Suite or Bridal Suite,” Ichabod explained. “These doors, perhaps with the four poster bed within seeing distance - so the view is of the country, in this direction, not the town.”

 

“Clever,” she agreed. “Feel as if you’re really in the past.” Grudgingly, she admitted that he seemed to have actually thought this through. Unlike…. She snapped open her tape measure, thought that floor-to-ceiling organza curtains would suit. The wispy fairy tale look on top, cool and blackout lined linen underneath. “Have you been over to  _ The Headless Horseman? _ ”

 

Ichabod looked up from the ledger he held. He’d carried it with him the whole way around. No iPad or clipboard for this dude. His other hand held a fountain pen. Abbie hadn’t seen one of those for years. “Once or twice for an ale. Doesn’t do to get soused too often when I need to keep my eye on the prize, as it were.”

 

She stopped measuring. “Soused?”

 

“Drunk.”

 

“Oh, right.” British-isms were weird, she surmised. “How do you feel about sconces, built into the wall? I just think a chandelier is a little too… public. This is a bridal suite. Chandeliers are all about showing off. Light to see your guests, and your food, and the opulence of the space. I have a doozy in mind for your hallway. But here… this space is…”

 

“Private,” he finished.

 

“Exactly. No one goes into a bridal suite to be seen by anyone except their new spouse. You don’t want bright, glittery lighting for that. You want something soft. Romantic.” She pulled her mini iPad from her jeans pocket and tapped in a few search terms. “And if you’re going to have any kind of bar…” she held the tech up and displayed a mini bar she’d seen in the bridal suite of a converted castle in Wales. “It’s totally hidden. You can get it if you want, and the phone’s there too, see, under the shelf, but otherwise..”

 

Ichabod closed the ledger. “Otherwise, for all intents and purposes, you would be immersed in the eighteenth century.”

 

“Yes. Absolutely.” She tucked the iPad away. “Except for the wifi. You are going to have wifi here, aren’t you?”

 

The corner of his mouth curved up. “I’m British, Miss Mills. We’re eccentric. Not heathens.”

 

Abbie got back into her car with her head spinning, limbs light with ideas. She glanced at the dash and saw the little card Jenny had given her. Was that only two hours ago? She started the engine and looked over her shoulder at the wide wooden doors to the Manor, closed now. As they’d been saying their goodbyes, a local construction firm’s truck had pulled up on the long drive. The foreman and Ichabod were inside now. The foreman had arrived with a long roll of C-Sheets tucked under his arm. Contrary to her earlier reticence, Abbie really wanted to get her hands on them. Where were the walls going? Could he afford to knock any through? Put any up? She had an idea for a claw-footed bath in that bridal suite. 

 

Unbidden, an image of Ichabod standing by the French doors, the wind ruffling his hair, curtains billowing, and his hand stretched out in welcome, flashed before her eyes. She chuckled at herself and pushed it away. She’d become seduced by the promise of the place, that was all. The available space. Anyone would be bowled over by it.

 

There was still no guarantee that it wouldn’t end up some hideous tourist trap.  _ And _ he hadn’t really given her an opinion on  _ The Headless Horseman. _ They might decide to go into business together. She shuddered, thinking of the branded mugs and keyrings and - God  _ why _ \- baseball caps for sale in the little shop attached to the Gastropub. If Ichabod decided to go there she’d refuse to design a shop space. Perish the thought.

  
As she drove away, she was already looking forward to putting the tender together for the job. The only sour point was how triumphant Jenny would be on finding out that the meeting went so well. Although even that couldn’t stick in her craw too much, especially when she knew it wouldn’t be long before the quirky Brit smiled at her again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stakes get a little higher for our lovely protagonist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for these short chapters. They work better around the new addition to our family :)

“Gee, look at that,” August said conversationally as he made himself comfortable at Abbie and Jenny’s dining table. “Valentine’s Day next month. Already.”

 

Abbie kept her back to him as she slid the steaming apple pie out of the oven. It was their Sunday afternoon tradition - her, Jenny, August and Joe, gathered for a late lunch always followed by apple pie and vanilla ice cream. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Happens every year.”

 

“Sure does.”

 

She glanced longingly at the door to the kitchen. Jenny and Joe were in there, ostensibly washing the dishes but more likely painting beards on each other’s faces with the soap suds. She set the pie down on the prepared trivet before August.

 

“Something you want to say?”

 

“What makes you think that?” he asked, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

 

Abbie rolled hers and fetched the pie knife. Contrary old bastard. Damned if she didn’t love him, but by God, he could  _ annoy _ the hell out of her. What Jenny had said had stuck with her, though. What if she did just couple up with someone briefly? Of course, they’d have to know and be in on it. Only thing was, what did she really have to bargain with? The pleasure of her company? She snorted silently. Whatever.

 

Andy Brooks flitted into her head as she served the pie. One of the mechanics working with August and Joe at Corbin Autos, he’d been sweet on her for ages. She hesitated, thinking it over. No. He was too nice. And what happened if he thought she was only  _ pretending _ to pretend to date him? God. The whole mess made her head hurt.

 

There was no one else, not really. Not anyone she knew just well enough to enter a business arrangement with. Unless….

 

Jenny and Joe re-entered the room. Jenny’s hair looked suspiciously wet at the ends, and Abie knew they had been giving each other soap sud crowns and beards. She almost rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite dredge up the sarcasm. If her sister was happy, that made her happy, too.

 

Joe forked up some pie and coughed. Except the cough sounded suspiciously like “Valentine’s Barn Dance.”

 

Abbie’s gaze shot to him and then over to August.

 

“Already mentioned it,” August muttered, elbowing his son and forking up his own large mouthful of pie.

 

Joe sent him a daggered look. “You wanted me to remind you,” he groused, low but still loud enough for Abbie to catch the gist.

 

“OH MY GOD.” Abbie dug into her own pie. “Anyone would think this was being filmed for Punk’d or some dysfunctional family sitcom. I am not going to the stupid hearts-and-flowers barn dance, alone or with anyone else. All right?”

 

But after everyone had cleared out of the dining room - August back to his own home, and Jenny and Joe out to the local wildflower field for a brisk after dinner walk - she let her gaze slide to the newspaper, folded over to hide what she’d seen.

 

Big and beautiful office space for sale, just outside Sleepy Hollow. Overlooking a lake. Great parking. And room for a  _ proper _ client waiting area as well as a small showroom.

 

She could only afford it with her inheritance. Sighing, she tore out the advert and stuffed it into her jeans pocket. Surely no one else would want to snap it up in a hurry. She had time to work on August’s old-fashioned opinion without pretending to date someone. It was archaic was what it was. Too bad the old man was stubborn. But then, so was she. She’d learned from the best, after all.

 

***

 

“You’re thinking of doing what?”

 

Ichabod folded his arms - free that damned ledger for once - over his chest. It was broad, Abbie thought, like his shoulders. She hated noticing that so much. Noticing his differences from her. Tall where she was small. Broad where she was slim. Irritatingly calm when she was - well, right now was not a good example.

 

“It is simply business, Miss Mills.”

 

Abbie set her iPad down on the workbench in the middle of what would be the old-fashioned sitting area/receiving room for guests taking afternoon tea at the Manor. “It is not business. That…  _ thing _ is a tourist trap. She has Headless Horseman bobble heads. Do you know what’s wrong with that?”

 

He raised a brow.

 

“He’s  _ headless.  _ He doesn’t  _ have _ a head!!!” She sighed. “The bobbling bit is an axe with the name of the pub on it.”

 

Ichabod moved slightly towards her, intrigue sketched on his handsome face. He’d dropped the 18th century dude look today, having opted instead for a tweed jacket and a button-down shirt over dark jeans. The look still suited him; the tweed a nod to his eccentricity. He smelled of soap and woodsmoke. The combo was surprisingly alluring and that just annoyed Abbie even more. “Any casual observer would think that you, perchance.. Had slightly strong feelings on the matter.”

She cut him a scathing look. He had a way of making her feel small that she didn’t appreciate. “It’s just that you’ll be working at cross-purposes,” she managed finally.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You mean that our purpose is both to attract tourists to the area and part them from their holiday spending money?”

 

Abbie dropped on to a stool parked by the workbench. “Look. I’m sorry. But I’m trying to build a reputation. A lot of people around here, they don’t think much of the  _ Headless Horseman. _ It’s a gimmick. I get it. And I get that Katrina has probably made a lot more money than I have, a lot faster.” At least she had if the flashy car she drove was any indication. “But my business relies on word of mouth, and if I design your space and she fills it with, with those...  _ bobbleheads, _ then…”

 

Ichabod slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. The movement hiked up the open tweed jacket and spread it, making him seem broader. He had a very real way, Abbie thought, of commanding any space he stepped into, no matter how large it was compared to his frame. “I understand. So you won’t be submitting a tender, then? I assure you I would be willing to pay a rather large sum. I do admire your work, believe me.”

 

She met his gaze and sighed. “I…”

 

The folded ad from yesterday’s paper all but burned through the pocket of her jeans. It was probably imprinted on her skin, she thought, annoyed. It dangled like the proverbial carrot.

  
“And you’re absolutely sure that there is nothing I could offer you? If it is in my power to grant, Miss Mills, you shall have it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lunch date.

_ Pretend to date me for a few weeks so I can get my inheritance and expand my business. _

Say it, Abbie coaxed herself. Say it, say it.

_ Just say it. _

But her lips remained stubbornly closed.

“I need to think about it,” she heard herself say instead. 

Ichabod inclined his head slightly in a strangely charming motion that almost looked like a tiny bow. “Perhaps you would let me know your decision in due course.”

“Absolutely.” That she could agree to. Abbie wasn’t one to leave someone hanging for long. She gathered her things.

“May I suggest…. Lunch?”

Her gaze snapped back to him. “Lunch?”

“You may be acquainted with it. The meal that traditionally breaks up the day.”

She couldn’t help it; her mouth twitched. His sass was hard to resist. “All right, no need to exercise your British sarcasm.”

“Perhaps I should have phrased it more effectively: would you like to have lunch with me?”

“Now?”

He shot his sleeve up - tweed again today, over a very soft, dove-grey button-down. The grey complemented the arctic blue of his eyes. “It’s a little after noon, is it not? The perfect time for lunch.”

Her stomach growled and Abbie knew he’d heard it when his mouth tilted up slightly. Cocky bastard.

“All right. I could eat.” And then, because she knew she was being prickly due to the bobblehead issue, she added, “Thank you.”

She drove and Ichabod followed in his own car - a bottle green Aston Martin - she couldn’t say what year, but it looked classic. And hella expensive.

Parking outside her friend Zoe Corinth’s vintage-themed tearoom,  _ The Third Wheel _ (so named because Zoe’s husband had run out on her with another woman, and Zoe was the sort of person who would rather face gossip head on than have it behind her back), Abbie turned her engine off and sat in her car for a long moment.

“It’s just lunch,” she reasoned.

Which would be fine if he didn’t make her pulse jump.

Which would be fine if he didn’t make her heart lift a bit when he met her gaze.

Which would be fine if he wasn’t so  _ intriguing. _

Ichabod Crane was a mystery, and damned if Abbie didn’t love a good puzzle. It was one of the reasons she loved interior design so much. Every room was a puzzle waiting to be solved. You just had to put the pieces in the right places, and the whole picture would just… sing.

She got out of the car, because Grace Abigail Mills was no coward.

A few spaces over, Ichabod closed the door to his own car. She watched him straighten his long frame, perfectly encased in darkwash jeans and that tweed coat. He looked so….. British. She refused to let herself think the word  _ delicious. _

“Eaten here before?” she asked as he fell into step beside her.

“I must say I have not.”

“Zoe’s a friend, and a good one. When she first moved here with her husband, she got a job as a chef in the hotel the next town over. When the husband ran out on her - with someone else - she cleaned him out in the divorce and opened this tearoom. The name is because she thought that if everyone was gossiping about her, she might as well make it worth their while.”

Ichabod’s mouth quirked. “I think I like her already.”

“Me, too. And the tearoom’s been a success, so she did good.”

Abbie pulled the door open before Ichabod had the chance. As they entered the light, airy space, Zoe crossed the length of the tearoom to greet them. Like everyone she employed, she wore a pencil skirt and a blouse with a wheel protruding from a teacup on the left hand side. “Hey, Abs. Early today.” Her gaze flitted briefly to Ichabod, but, having been the subject of gossip for a while, she said nothing except, “Mr Crane, nice to finally meet you.” 

She offered him her hand and Ichabod took it in both of his, pressing it warmly. “I see my reputation preceeds me. All abominable, I trust.”

Zoe smiled indulgently. “Eating in or taking away?” 

“In,” Ichabod said, at the same time as Abbie said, “Out.”

They looked at each other. Abbie decided to pick her battles. “In it is.”

Zoe led them to a table by the window.  _ The Third Wheel _ was tucked away down one of the side streets of Sleepy Hollow, which meant better parking and a view of some of the local parkland. Zoe set down two wheel-shaped menus in front of them and promised to return in a few minutes to take their order.

Ichabod opened his menu. “What is that American saying - oh yes. What’s good here?”

“I think you might be ribbing me,” Abbie said dryly.

He folded the menu back down. “You wanted to avoid eating in here with me. Is it so bad to be associated with outsiders?”

“No, it’s just that I haven’t decided whether I want to work with you yet.”  _ And I don’t want my overzealous guardian to see us together and assume I’ve got a date for the freakin’ Valentine’s Barn Dance. _ The archaic tradition could die in a fire as far as she was concerned. She wasn’t really one for wearing a big skirt and being twirled around.

Even if the handsome Brit opposite her was the one doing the twirling.

“Well, perhaps if we get to know each other, that would assist in your elimination process,” he suggested in that smooth baritone.

Abbie looked at him over her menu. He really had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. The sunshine slanted in through the tearoom’s big windows, catching on his hair and bringing over hints of copper and gold.

He opened his menu again. “So, Miss Mills. What’s your pleasure?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading if you've made it this far!  
> I'm planning on Ichabod's POV next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our favourite couple get to know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been soooooo looooooong! Months in fact! It's hard to claw out time to write with our baby being so small. So, if you've stuck with this, thank you, and I hope you enjoy this short chapter.

He was a patient man. He could wait her out, for as long as it took.

 

Ichabod sat opposite the delectable Abigail Mills in the quaint - he would have said twee in in his native England - diner with the friendly, perky owner. 

 

Abbie had said she was friends with said owner, but you wouldn't know it from how attentively she studied the menu, as if she'd never eaten here before. 

 

He had admired her work from afar from some time. She and her sister Jenny had an excellent eye for colour, and, judging by shots of their finished interiors online, a brilliant talent for pairing scheme with homeowner and working to budget. Luckily for him, he didn't need to worry about cashflow - just as well, seeing as the Manor required quite a lot of structural work in addition to the cosmetic. She would be a beauty, for sure, and he was confident of filling her rooms most nights, but it had to be perfect.

 

And he knew without a doubt that the woman opposite him could make it so. And she wanted something from him - he could tell that much. It might take a decade to get it out of her, but he could see in every hesitation, every bite of her delicious-looking lower lip, that she was teetering on taking the job.

 

She looked up and met his gaze, the quirk of her lips telling him she'd read the naughtiness in his question. "What's  _your_ pleasure?" she countered cheekily.

 

"Wouldn't you like to know."

 

Her gaze cut away. "Not if it includes headless bobble heads."

 

Ichabod folded his menu and waited for her to look at him again. "And what if I swore a blood oath not to let those tiny bobble headed horsemen over the threshold of the Manor?"

 

Abbie gaped at him for a second, then rolled her eyes. "A blood oath? You Brits. Such drama. I don't want anything to do with your blood. A pinky swear will do fine."

 

They smiled at each other. Ichabod almost heard the little crack in her armour, and he hadn't really known until this moment how badly he wanted to get beneath it. "Very well." He offered his shortest finger.

 

She looked at it for a moment. "What was it you said about getting to know each other? Well, tell me some stuff you about."

 

Ichabod withdrew his hand. He was a patient man. "What would you like to hear about? My boarding school youth? I was rather spotty and awkward, and the tales you may have heard of dorm room pillow fights in our underwear were greatly exaggerated."

 

That smirk again. He loved seeing it flicker over her face. "How about... where you're from?"

 

"The family seat is in Scotland, but when I was a boy I lived in Cambridge, so I lost the accent. It's a shame, my friends there tell me it's quite a hit with the ladies."

 

Something moved over Abbie's face, but he couldn't read it before she asked, "Siblings?"

 

"None."

 

***

 

Abbie waited for him to make a joke, like "no siblings, my parents stopped at perfection" or something, but he didn't. He didn't feel the need to embellish his education or his character. It was..... refreshing.

 

She picked at the edge of the laminated menu, about to ask him something else, when Zoe strolled up to their table.

 

"You about ready?"

 

Ichabod raised a brow in question.

 

"Sure." Abbie closed her menu. "I'll have the cobb salad, extra bacon. And a black coffee."

 

"Tea, and the salt beef club sandwich, thank you." Ichabod handed his menu to Zoe.

 

"Coming right up. Welcome to Sleepy Hollow, Mr Crane." Zoe took the menus, and headed back towards the kitchen of the tearoom.

 

"You caused quite a stir when you bought the Manor," Abbie commented as a few other patrons entered the tea room, the bell on the door tinkling gently in welcome as they did so. "The place had been there for a while, gathering dust."

 

"And many other less pleasant things, I can assure you. Well, I'm glad to have provide some fresh fodder for the rumour mill. Any particularly juicy gossip I should know about? I imagine much of it concerns my attire."

 

Abbie was saved from having to reply immediately when a blonde waitress dropped their drinks off. She thanked the girl, hoping that turning her head hid the flush on her cheeks. Wasn't it only the other day that she had laughed at Ichabod with her sister, calling him a ren fayre escapee because of his clothes?

 

"I can't blame anyone for thinking I'm eccentric," Ichabod continued. "The truth is, my degrees are in history and historical literature, and at Cambridge I became rather involved in the re-enactment society, where such clothes are commonplace."

 

"They do make you memorable."

 

"A good thing, don't you think, perhaps, when I'm about to start  a business that needs to garner much attention to succeed?"

 

She couldn't argue with his logic. As they talked over lunch, she found him affable, self-deprecating, witty, and a keen listener - a quality she'd sought in a man for a long time. She had arrived reluctant to ask him to fake-date her, but actually.... would it be so bad? He was interesting. And he had an Aston Martin. Well. She could be shallow about some things, couldn't she?

 

And if the sunlight caught his eyes just so, turning them the brilliant cobalt of the pacific, and if his smile made a slow burn start in her stomach, well, she'd get over that once she had her brand new office space, wouldn't she? Attraction was temporary. If she successfully grew her business, that would be forever.

 

Zoe came over with the check, and Ichabod reached into his jacket pocket. At the same time, Abbie dug into her jeans for her wallet, and as she tugged it free, a little folded slip of newspaper escaped with it, floating down on to the surface of the table between them.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod angles to see our heroine again. And who wouldn't?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! Within a month! Husband is baby wrangling. I'm sorry it's short, but if you're here for it, THANK YOU!!!!
> 
> NB: my sister in law works as an interior designer and has several times had people ask for a LOT of animal print in one place :)

Ichabod’s gaze landed on the scrap of paper. He itched to take it, but there was no need. He could easily read the words on it without leaning forward. 

 

Abbie snatched it up and stuffed it into her wallet. A red flush gave her cheeks a rosy glow, but she said nothing.

 

“Please, allow me.” Ichabod slid the little wheel-shaped cork plate with the check on towards him.

 

“Nah, we go Dutch.”

 

She was fiercely independent, and he liked that.

 

“Perhaps you’ll allow me to purchase a meal for us both on another occasion. Later in the day.” He thought she would look radiant by candlelight.

 

However, saying so would almost certainly guarantee that he’d never get to find out, so he didn’t add anything.

 

“We’ll see” was all she replied. Zoe came over to take their payment, and she and Abbie passed a few comments about this and that in the town. Ichabod enjoyed seeing her interact with her friend. She was warm, gently witty. Her frank, what-you-see-is-what-you-get nature was infinitely appealing.

 

He thanked Zoe as he and Abbie left the Third Wheel together.

 

Outside, the wind had picked up, lifting Abbie’s dark hair away from her neck, revealing the tempting curve.

 

“So.” She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her smart, hot pink blazer. “We’ve done the get to know you thing. I should be getting back-”

 

“Would you permit me just a little more time?”

 

He watched indecision skirt around on her fine-boned face.

 

“What’ve you got in mind?” she finally asked.

 

“I’d like to walk you around the grounds of the Manor, put you in the picture, as it were, about my plans there and for the building as a whole.”

 

“I’m tempted, I am, but there are clients I really need to get back to before close of business.” She held out a hand. “Thanks for lunch. It was… enlightening.”

It certainly had been for him, Ichabod thought. He clasped her small hand between both of his. “Another time, perhaps.”

 

“Yeah.” She left her hand there for a few moments, he noticed. It was promising.

 

“Are you engaged this Friday evening?”

 

“No, I’m not-” she laughed, tugged her hand away. “Persistent, aren’t you?”

 

“I’m told it’s one of my most annoying traits.”

 

Now she laughed properly this time, and Ichabod knew instantly that it was a sound he’d yearn to hear often. “You’re told right. Mr Crane…”

 

“Ichabod, please.”

 

“Can I check my schedule, get back to you?”

 

“Of course.”

 

He lingered for a moment as she walked to her little car, enjoying the gentle sway of her hips. Then he turned away, got into his own car, and drove out to the address on the little advert that had fallen between them only a few moments ago.

 

****

 

On Wednesday, Abbie sat on her bed, three pre-prepared mood boards laid out in front of her for a client who wanted her lounge-cum-diner redone. The client had requested - well, the client  _ desperately wanted _ \- the entire damn thing in zebra stripe print. Abbie shuddered. It was her job to convince the woman that it would be a total eyesore if that came to pass.

 

Her first suggestion involved two zebra-print ottomans between the two grey sofas the client already owned. A single cushion in the same fabric would also nestle in the centre of one of the sofas, picking up the theme. Everything else in the room would be varying grades of cream and grey, alllowing the animal print to take centre stage without being suffocating.

 

Her second suggestion kept the cushion and added a custom canvas print of two zebras with their heads on each other’s necks. It was bolder, but without the ottomans it wouldn’t seem as if the entire room was covered in zebras.

 

The third mood board held a long zebra-print ottoman in place of a coffee table. Mugs were balanced atop it on a tray carved from dark wood, picking up the safari/zebra brief.

 

Abbie studied them with a critical eye. None of them were her cup of tea, but she was confident that the client would be pleased.

 

Part of design work usually involved tweaking the chosen mood board and then working to whatever budget the client set, however tight.

 

Or loose, she thought, her mind drifting to Ichabod and what the Manor must be costing to refurb. Jesus.

 

Her phone chirped and she picked it up absently, seeing a text from Jenny.

 

_ Tall, dark and British called here for you. _

 

Against her will, a smile curved her lips. Persistence  _ was _ his most annoying trait. And her favourite one.

 

_ What did he want? _ She texted back.

 

_ To know if you’re on for Friday. WTF is happening on Friday? Girl, you’re holding out on me. Tell, tell, tell. _

 

Abbie laughed. She and Jenny used to shout TELL, TELL, TELL! At each other as kids when they sensed the other had something to hide.

 

_ Nothing to tell at the moment,  _ she texted back.  _ I’ve got his number. I’ll call him. _

 

Jenny didn’t text back, and Abbie knew she was in for the Spanish Inquisition later. She thumbed over to her calendar on the screen of her phone. Well, she didn’t have plans on Friday. It couldn’t hurt to find out what he wanted her for, could it? And if she got the benefit of those baby blue eyes as well as a tour of the Manor, well…..

 

She dialed his number.

  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our hero and heroine prepare for the definitely-not-a-date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the ramblings of this tired mum.

Abbie glared at the contents of her wardrobe, challenging them to change into something. She didn't know what, just something... suitable.

 

Suitable for what? she wondered. Dinner and a garden walk with a British millionaire at a Grade II listed building.

 

What did you wear for that? There was no dress code, unless she could get hold of a copy of Debrett's, and that shit didn't come on Kindle for Android.

 

Jenny sat on her bed, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. She held it out.

 

"I cannot believe you're eating  _popcorn_  while I'm having a dilemma."

 

"Why not? Popcorn is for entertainment."

 

"Don't make me stab you in the eye with this." Abbie gestured with one half of one of the few pairs of heels she owned.

 

"You can't reach," Jenny said confidently. "Just choose something. He probably thinks you're hotter than summer in Texas."

 

That gave Abbie pause. Did he? His own appearance certainly wasn't too hard on the eyes.She put the heels down and pulled a dove grey dress, boat necked with a skater skirt, from her closet, and held it infront of her. "This?"

 

"Too boring."

 

"You've said that for everything so far! It's a business meeting."

 

Jenny tilted her head to the side. "I guess you could skip panties."

 

"Jennifer Mills. I'm ashamed to be related to you." She tossed the grey dress on the bed. "I'm wearing it. And I'm wearing panties."

 

Jenny put the bowl of popcorn down. "I can't believe you held out on me."

 

"It's nothing. I told you, it's business."

 

They stared at each other for a moment.

 

"Not every guy is him, Abs," Jenny said quietly. 

 

Abbie turned and looked at her reflection in the mirrored door of her wardrobe. Logically she knew Jenny was right, but sometimes it took a while for the heart to get messages from the brain. Sometimes the messages stopped getting through all together.

 

"I know," she said eventually. "But in the same vein.... not everything is about relationships. Maybe all I want out of this is business. What I want most right now is to grow the business. And to do that we both need to focus. On design, not how a client looks, however hot."

 

"You admitted that he was hot!"

 

"For God's sake." Abbie threw a sock at her sister. "You've got a one track mind. No wonder Joe's happy." She sighed. "Right now, I only want to think about work, okay? I'm all right, really, I am."

 

Much later, she wondered how often she would need to repeat that before she started to believe it.

 

****

 

A few miles away, in the small useable part of the Manor's kitchen, Ichabod cursed himself blind for thinking he could live in the same place as he was rehabbing. Whose fool idea had it been? His, of course.

 

It wasn't the mess. He could tolerate that as it was temporary. However, what he couldn't tolerate, however temporary, was the Godawful noise from the building work upstairs.

 

He wanted to give Miss Mills a tour of the grounds. What had he been thinking? He had no idea, since coherent thought was impossible with the penumatic drill currently in session above his head.

 

He flipped through the cookbook on his tablet for a third time.  _Wanted to cook, didn't you, impress her with your skills. Idiot._

He could order out. Or he could take her out.

 

A picnic was out of the question as it would be too cold out of doors.

 

He supposed there was one more option. He clicked off the screen of the tablet and slid his smartphone from his pocket. His time in the re-enactment society had given him a deep appreciation for a time before wifi and pocket phones, but really, there were ocassions were he was truly, inescapably grateful for the marvels of modern technology.

 

****

 

Two hours later, he opened the door to Abbie. She had insisted on driving herself, although he'd offered to pick her up. She wanted her own transport to leave on her own terms, he knew, and he couldn't blame her for it. He could be some total weirdo.

 

A smile curved up the side of his mouth. He lived alone in a listed building and dressed like a character from a time travel film. He  _was_  a total weirdo.

 

And yet here she was, a goddess in a dove grey dress, the hint of a smile ghosting on her perfect lips, and she had come for him.

 

"Hey," she said.

 

"Please, come in." He closed the door behind her, and in the light of her quiet gaze, he suddenly lost all desire to make small talk and be gentlemanly. In that moment, all he wanted was to strip her of that dress and to hear her moan his name against the wall.

 

"Can I take your coat?" he asked instead.

 

She handed him the mac folded over her arm. She looked, he noted, as if she were attending a business meeting, if it weren't for the red lipstick. That lipstick added an edge to her outfit. The lipstick said this was a date. The dress said this wasn't. He wondered which one she'd listen to, if they got that far.

 

"I still can't get over this place. It's so..... grand. It makes me feel so insignificant."

 

He hung her coat on the coat rack, the dark wood object, finished, looking so out of place in the building site that he called home for now. "You needn't. We'll be outside this evening."

 

"Oh, a tour before dinner?" He saw the interest piqued in her eyes. The design was what had brought her to his door, but he keenly hoped that other things would keep be returning.

 

"The tour's afterwards. I rather hoped we could eat there, too. I had a friend set up a small marquee."

 

"A marquee?" she searched his face. "This is, I mean.... This isn't a date."

 

"Think of it as an opportunity to see all that I would be able to offer guests of the Manor. I expect you to be offering advice on the placement of items inside the space, of course. For weddings, parties and such."

 

Her lips quirked and he knew he had her. He offered his hand. "If you'd allow me to escort you to dinner?"

 

If she thought he was eccentric for offering to escort her across tarpaulin as if it were the finest marble floor of a ballroom, she didn't show it. 

 

Instead, she took his hand.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we nearly - get down to business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, and I'm sorry, but my darling* baby isn't sleeping too good right now, so time is limited. Thank you for reading!!
> 
> *replace with any word you see fit.

He was clever, she'd give him that.

 

Abbie crossed the unfinished lawn hand in hand with the eccentric Brit she'd somehow become interested in. His fingers were warm around hers, his palm wide, smooth.

 

He had large hands and she found herself idly wondering if the old adage followed, then scoffed at herself. That was something Jenny would say.

 

Abbie glanced up at Ichabod's handsome profile and wondered, for the first time, if she should finally take a leaf out of her sister's book.

 

"Here we are." Ichabod parted the edges at the front of the modest marquee and, releasing her hand, held one flap up for her. "Ladies first."

 

Abbie usually hated it when guys said patronising shit like that. But with Ichabod, it was.... different. He seemed like he genuinely wanted to treat her, regardless of the outcome. It was refreshing, if a little unnerving. She just didn't know exactly what he wanted.

 

Then again, she didn't know what  _she_ wanted, either. What a pair.

 

The draped ceiling of the marquee was softly illuminated with strings of fairy lights. The grey canopy made it appear as if stars were scattered above the table.

 

Small and round, it was set for two, with an ice bucket between the two place settings. A bunch of roses and a bottle of champagne, top open, cold steam billowing from the mouth, filled the bucket.

 

Abbie turned, aghast. "This is not a date."

 

"No, it's what I hope to give to guests who stay here. But there wasn't time to set up more than this before you arrived."

 

"Uh huh."

 

She stared him out, but to her annoyance - and grudging respect - he only lifted a brow slightly, his expression polite and passive.

 

"Won't you sit?"

 

With no other real option, she was, for once, lost for words as he pulled out a chair for her.

 

All she could think was: she'd dated Danny for nine months and he'd only taken her out a few times. She'd known Ichabod for a handful of days and he'd arranged dinner under the stars.

 

"Where did you even get this?" Was all she could think of to say.

 

"I know someone."

 

She looked around. He might have thrown her a curveball, but her designer's mind quickly pulled her back on track, calculating exactly what she'd do with the space and how. A flower wall there, a temporary dance floor to the left, those giant illuminated letters to the right....

 

"You know someone."

 

He shrugged one shoulder. "It generally helps to know people you wish to ask favours of."

 

"Funny." But she had to bite her lip not to snicker. He had snark, and she liked that. Dammit. She liked him, more than she'd liked anyone for a long, long time. And that was freakin' dangerous.

 

"Champagne?" He tilted the bottle in offer.

 

"Half a glass. I'm driving."

 

"I'm happy to call you a conveyance. You can leave your car here overnight."

 

Abbie speculated as he poured a modest amount into each their glasses. He hadn't said she could stay, somehow inferring that she'd leave tonight. That she wouldn't put out tonight despite the star-sprinkled ceiling, the champagne, all the  _beauty_  he'd arranged for her.

 

God damn it. She  _really_  liked him.

 

"So." He lifted his glass. "A toast. To this date which is not a date. And to our impending partnership - or, to the partnership I hope is impending."

 

Abbie couldn't stop the smile this time as she clinked her glass with his. "Would you like to know how I'd style this marquee?"

 

"I would."

 

"Two colours only. Pale pink and white. Old English elegance. Roses in either white or pale pink; candles in white, seat covers and tablecloths in white. Pale pink napkins at the side of each place setting, a single white rose laid on each."

 

She waited for his response. He nodded at each point she made.

 

"And for the surrounding space?"

 

"A wall of flowers in the same colours, a backdrop for a dance floor or communal space for photos. If the couple want it, those big illuminated letters, that often spell  _love_  or similar. But in white, again. The simplicity of the two colours allows the couple themselves to just... sing. To be the stars of the show in every way."

 

Ichabod reached across the table and took her hand. "Miss Mills.  _Abbie._  I need you to know how very, very much I wish you to take the lead on this Manor. I feel you are the perfect creative mind for it."

 

At that moment, the flaps to the marquee opened and a waiter appeared, carrying a large, round silver tray.

 

"Our starters," Ichabod supplied.

 

The waiter placed small plates of dressed crab before them and left silently after Ichabod thanked him.

 

Abbie stared at the plate. This was the finest damn not-a-date date she'd ever had. In fact, probably the finest not-a-date date in the history of dating.

 

"I suppose this is just a chance to show me what you could offer your guests in the way of food," she said dryly.

 

"You took the words from my mouth."

 

As she picked up her fork, Ichabod added, "Whilst I'm not one to parade wealth around, I could meet any sum you wished to command, Miss Mills. You are the one to make this Manor come alive. I feel it. What can I offer you? A personal favour, in addition to monetary compensation?"

 

Abbie thought back to the advert that had landed between them in Zoe's diner. Did he know something? No, he couldn't have seen it that quickly.

 

Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the ridiculously sumptuous crab. Maybe it was the man opposite her, with summer-sky blue eyes and a voice that was foreplay by itself.

 

But whatever it was, it suddenly inspired her to do the crazy.

 

"There is one thing."

 

"Name it, and it will be yours." His eyes held hers for a hot second, promising things he had no right to. Things she wanted.

 

"I need a fake date."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie lays out the plan - but does the quirky Brit have other ideas?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou everyone who has read, commented & left kudos! You make this tired mama so happy.

Ichabod stared at the timeless beauty sat opposite him.

 

It was the first time in a long time - many years, in fact - that he could recall being struck absolutely speechless.

 

“Pardon me?” he asked eventually.

 

She frowned. “A pretend date. It’s… it’s unbelievably stupid.”

 

He reached across the table, and, surprising him, she put her hand in his. Her fingers were long and delicate, her palm small and soft. She would be soft everywhere he was hard, and the thought tightened his muscles below the belt. He forced himself to relax and to be attuned only to her.

 

“I swear to you that I shall not laugh at you - and, I am adept at keeping secrets.”

 

Her lips curved, and he knew he would do near anything to chase the sadness from her face, every moment. “I’m sure of it. You’re far too easy to talk to, Ichabod Crane. What sort of name is that, anyway?”

 

“My parents were… eccentric. But no more about me. Please, enlighten me as to the details of your predicament.”

 

“When my Mom died-” he knew sympathy had settled on his face, because she waved it away with her free hand “she left guardianship of my sister Jenny and I  to her good friend August Corbin - you might have heard his name around town.”

Ichabod raised a brow silently, indicating that she could continue. He was hoping he wouldn’t need to imminently source a large stick to beat anyone who had mistreated the vision of loveliness before him.

“Anyway, he’s been so good to us, really. Like more of a father than just a father figure. Jenny is even engaged to his son, Joe, and they’re so happy together. But…” she winced. “Why is there always a but?”

He squeezed her hand.

“But, apparently my Mom put strings on our inheritance. We need to be settled down to cash it in. And… while I want to respect her wishes, it seems…. So old-fashioned to hitch my wagon to any old Tom, Dick or Harry just to get the funds I need to expand my business.”

She sat back - but left her hand in his, Ichabod noted, pleased.

“So, I was thinking… I hate the idea, but really,  it’s so  _ constricting… _ if I were to be going steady with someone, Corbin might relax the purse strings a bit.”

“The arrangement does seem archaic, I agree,” Ichabod replied after a moment of thought. “Are you sure you want to go down this road, though?”

“What do you mean?”

 

They were briefly interrupted by the waiter removing their finished crab and topping up their table water. Ichabod quietly thanked the man, then turned back to Abbie. She wore her business face, still, and he longed to see the passionate woman he hoped lurked under the surface.

“I mean, if you decide to take this fork in the road, as it were, with a counterfeit beau, then you may find that you have more questions than you care to answer. A relationship requires a shared history and knowledge of each other. Moreover, had you decided you only just met, then why would you be bringing said beau to meet the family?”

Abbie chewed her lip, and Ichabod tried not to focus on the plump flesh there, and how he would dearly like to taste it.

“It wouldn’t be for long,” she amended. “Just for the stupid valentine’s barn dance, for starters.”

“Ah, yes.” He had seen posters touting it, stuck up around the town, on trees and pillars. He hadn’t really intended to go along, but….

It seemed fate might be having a good chuckle at his plans.

“I just want Corbin to see that while he’s a good man for sticking to the promise he made my Mom, that money is for me to improve my life. And expanding the business is what I want. It would…” she sighed. “I never thought I’d repeat the phrase my Mom used so much,but.. It’s what would make my heart happy.”

“My dear Miss Mills. I would do anything in my power to help you achieve your dream. However, I’m unsure that fabricating a relationship would be as simple as it seems.”

She searched his face, and he watched the cogs in her clever brain turn. “But then… you’re suggesting…”

“Would you allow me to court you? I propose starting by escorting out to the barn dance.”

Her brows shot up. “Real dating?”

“Real dating,” he confirmed.

****

 

Abbie was saved from replying by the waiter bringing over their main courses - a huge, delicious, steaming tureen of lobster bisque, served with parmesan crisps and a wooden board stacked with fluffy bread rolls. 

“I’m…. I’m not really interested in a relationship right now,” she said at length, having been fairly blindsided by his gambit.

“But I  _ am _ interested in you,” the eccentric, and dammit  _ hot _ Brit opposite her countered. “All I ask is a chance. And in return, even if you decide that I am not to your taste, I shall continue the charade as long as you wish - until your plans for your business are realised.”

_ Oh. _ She hadn’t really expected that. A chance to win her over, and even if he didn’t, she’d get what she wanted?

She held his gaze, this unbelievably gorgeous man who looked like he’d stepped out of time, with eyes as blue as a robin’s egg, hair like ropes of gold. “What about terms?”

“Terms of engagement?” he clarified. “I would be happy to commit those to paper with and for you. But first,” he gestured to the food, “first, please, this bisque is going cold, and ‘tis really best enjoyed hot.”

_ What’s the betting that it isn’t the only thing best enjoyed hot in this Manor? _ Abbie thought, almost snickering to herself. But her amusement didn’t last long. She had the feeling she was about to make the first move in a dangerous game.

She had to keep her eye on the prize.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terms of engagement, and our favourite couple get a little closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being here for this!

Over an hour later, coffee sat steaming between them, little chocolate mints on each saucer. Abbie picked one up and studied it, pretending not to notice how ridiculously  _ hot _ Ichabod looked in the seat opposite, his shirt open at the neck like some sort of sexy… vagabond, his eyes the blue of a faraway ocean, and likely as deep.

 

She could drown in those eyes, she thought, and then swore at herself for thinking such romantic tripe.

 

_ Eyes on the prize. _

 

She tapped the notepad on the table between them. “Okay, so you’ve proved that you can make amazing food happen.” Ridiculous, actually. She had never ever so well in her life. “And you’re not terrible to look at.”

 

“Please, do tell me how you really feel,” he deadpanned.

 

Abbie rolled her eyes. “Terms of engagement.”

 

In response, he offered a pen from his pocket. An old-fashioned one, the inkwell kind, because of course. Abbie slid the cap off. A drop of blue ink welled in the small hollow of the nib, and suddenly she had a flash of what this manor would have been like, all those years ago. Pens scratching on parchment. The flash of moonlight, seen through a grand plantation-style sash window. Lovers trysts on balconies, passion whispered in the spaces between their bodies, wispy curtains concealing barely heard promises.

 

She snapped to. Maybe she’d drunk more champagne than she’d thought..?

 

Maybe the man opposite her affected her more than she wanted to admit.

 

_ Eyes on the prize. _ But… which prize did she want?

 

“I defer to you, Miss Mills,” Ichabod said, bringing her back to the present. “I suggest our agreement begin as of this evening, and end, perhaps, a week after the barn dance, later, if your guardian has not relinquished the funds by then.”

 

She started to write, then stopped. “That’s only three weeks total. You’re gonna make me fall in love with you in three weeks?”

 

He tilted his head slightly. “Love requires patience and time. I wish to court you, to discover if we might discover… mutually fulfilling ways to explore a relationship.”

 

He held her gaze for several hot seconds, and then Abbie had to look away. Was it ever hot in here, or….?

 

“Fine,” she said, because she didn’t trust her voice when her imagination had started to work overtime on those  _ mutually fulfilling _ ideas. “Three weeks it is.”

 

He couldn’t achieve very much in three weeks, she thought confidently, as she scratched out a basic contract from memory. 

 

“And what if…?”

 

“If, after the three weeks, as agreed, if you continue to harbour no romantic intent towards me, we shall arrange faux outings until your dream is realised.”

 

She scratched that out, then signed it. “Here. Your turn.”

 

When he took the pen, signed, their hands brushed, and pleasant little  _ zing _ ran up her arm. She pushed it down. If she fell for him, really fell, then she’d have no protection. If she opened her heart and let him have everything, if she opened herself, then she’d be vulnerable.

 

And the last time she’d been vulnerable, it had nearly killed her to pull herself back up again, out of the black hole that was left.

 

_ I agreed to his ridiculous “courting” plan to get the funds, _ she assured herself. Not because of his stupid sexy face or the way his butt looked or the strangely soothing, archaic delivery of his words.

 

Because of her business. It was the only thing that mattered, the only tangible thing she could rely on. Not her heart. It didn’t need to be involved in this.

 

So it was strange that that particular organ felt so light as she watched Ichabod scrawl his name.

 

He pushed the pad aside and picked up his coffee. “All in all, I’ve enjoyed a delightful evening with you, Miss Mills.”

 

She tore the piece of paper off and shoved it in her pocket. “I’ll see that you get a copy. It’s been…. Eye-opening. I believe you will make a success of the Manor. Bobbleheads aside.” She took a sip of her coffee, met his gaze. His mouth curved up on one side, very slightly. It made her think about biting him, just there, at the fullest part of his bottom lip. “I’d…. better make a move.”

 

“As you wish.” He signalled the waiter. “John, please call Miss Mills a conveyance, to arrive as soon as possible.”

 

“I’m fine to drive.”

 

“Allow yourself this one luxury, please, on me.”

 

Abbie stood, and he followed suit. She frowned. “You don’t have to do this, you know. All.. this.”

 

He walked her to the edge of the marquee. Outside, a heavy smattering of stars twinkled, scattered on the inky blackness of the sky. “All… what?”

 

“Throwing your cash around. I can pay for my own convey… cab.”

 

“I’m aware you can. But perhaps you’ll allow me to treat you as you deserve? Believe me when I say, Miss Mills, that you are a diamond of the first water. If I can offer you any small comfort, the pleasure is mine.”

 

_ Well, when he put it like that… _ Abbie folded her arms, unable to say anything that wouldn’t make her sound churlish.

 

“I apologise. I have put you in an awkward spot.” He placed a gentle finger under her chin, applying very slight pressure so she would look up at him. “I’ve found myself rambling this evening, I admit, because I’ve been unable to think of anything, except…”

 

He was so close that Abbie could smell him, soap and woodsmoke and a hint of spice, and it make something deep inside her uncurl, wanting to be closer.

 

“Except… what?” she whispered.

 

He closed the tiny distance left between their bodies, capturing her mouth for a kiss.

  
  



End file.
